


Blue Stallion

by RAW_SYNTH3TICA



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Male Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 22:11:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3357116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RAW_SYNTH3TICA/pseuds/RAW_SYNTH3TICA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael & Trevor reunite, kill Wei Chang, the O'Neil brothers, & are in business with Devin Weston.<br/>None have ever gone down southern Los Santos until Trevor takes up ownership of the Vanilla Unicorn...that's when life & the value of the Vanilla Unicorn dives...it all starts when Trevor takes a step into the blue room of the Blue Stallion Lounge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Stallion

**Author's Note:**

> ALL IS FICTIONAL & NOT MINE

Trevor was growing impatient the longer he waited in the champagne room, his table empty and the music filling the absence of his promised stripper, but things worked out strangely - 

He thought back to a year ago after he had killed off the owner of the Vanilla Unicorn, taking the place and managing the business himself with Michael monopolizing the movie theaters and investing in five-star-fluke restaurants, he took the lower half of Los Santos to himself, building his name from the sewer-drain bottom on up. Money was rolling in, lines of women were endless, homeless freaks drooling for a dollar were boundless, not until he learned of a place opening up directly across the street, at least two-dozen yards from Trevor’s front doorstep of the Unicorn still within Strawberry Street was an establishment calling itself the Blue Stallion, and the name was not of something to do with livestock or farms. He saw his clientele slowly trickling across, some for the most part shaken as they came back to the Unicorn visibly irritated and pissed, mumbling things about their wives, girlfriends, hell even mistresses leaving them shortly after discreet billboards advertising lines such as ‘Like a Stallion’ , ‘Live, Private, 24/7’ , ‘We serve vintage and soft Cock-tails’ , ‘Wranglers - Welcome’ and less subtly ‘Riders needed.’ 

Curiosity soon got the better of Trevor, he locked up his office and walked across the street, j-walking in front of a pair of caffeine-and-sugar-filled cops, and he just as quickly pulled down his pants in front of them and gave a half-wiggle before proceeding to the cobalt neon-lit entrance of the Blue Stallion. The convenient double doors opened to a wide room pounding aggressive beats, which had a catwalk and four poles spaced at least two-and-a-half yards between each, the one at the very center lit by a blue-tinged spotlight while the others offside flashed with epilepsy-inducing strobes and tube lights, the whole catwalk was lit up like the Redwood office rooftop on the company smoke-break, shades differing between neon cobalt, color-true cyan blue, to the deeply tinged bulbs lighting shadows in deep royals and dark blues. The place was just Blue! He would not have been surprised if they were serving something the same slightly-sexual, annoyingly-mysterious, somewhat-depressing, maybe-animal-oriented product, he had so far not run into an equine of any type before catching the nearly-invisible mural of neon-painted horses prancing across the black-lit ceiling. He had walked straight into a strip joint not unlike his own and already he was annoyed of being ignored. 

Ass of all sizes had single-use tagged on their G-strings, a majority were pubescent pretty things with pouty mouths and long legs, half a dozen which looked more like bikini-clad muscle men whom were nothing more than waiters served drinks on clear platters and got to business entertaining the gaggle of cougars stuffing wads of presidents into their leather garters and itty-bitty spandex shorts. His cock tingled and pressed urgently against his zipper as realization dawned on him that in this particular neck of Los Santos underground was the female fantasy where broke pool-boys came to make legal money, boy-toys pulled on their big-boy diapers and put some hairs on their balls, muscle-heads came from the gym and Vespucci Beach to get worshipped. The customers were strictly women, a sprinkling of men looking glum as they supervised their wives getting rubbed on, some had their (male) legal team drawing up nuptials or divorce papers while the women screamed an endless twitter of ‘Yes!’ The ceilings sported circular-cut mirrors directly over the customers or on opposite walls, making the atmosphere more in the moment and immediate, the fishy smell of lust like a second breath layered in the air, Trevor was mostly disappointed in the bar which wrapped one side in stations, he leaned against the ever-present blue of the faux granite and stared up at the menu alit again in neon blue, so much that he swore it would take a while getting used to seeing any other color. 

“Y’have anything other than half-assed spoiled juice and rabbit food in this joint?” he growled over the heady thuds erupting from the speakers placed in booming towers over corners and tweeters placed overhead in the wall insulation, the muscle-stallion shook his head and handed Trevor a free glass of ice-water instead, he took the glass and hissed, “Figures.” 

“Hey, Duke-” a smooth abrupt voice came from his left as soon as a ‘thunk’ of motorcycle helmet was made apparent, Trevor glanced over his shoulder at a shameless specimen of man dressed to the nines in a midnight blue moto jacket with the Los Santos Speedway emblems, white flannel undershirt and fitting indigo jeans, the perfect curve of ass tapering down to a pair of muscular legs in the boot-cut denims, the kid gave off a flair which lay half between ‘street hustler’ and ‘business thug’, “-How’s business tonight, man? People having a good time and shit?” 

“Shit, baby,” Trevor growled, he turned to face the kid, he looked from the light brown eyes, down the thick neck, along the thick chest to the pinched waist, and finally over the muscled shoulder to the double-handful of ass pointing straight out from the sizable package between the pronounced legs, he licked his lips appreciatively allowing his gaze to linger, “You’re drop dead Fuckable! What’re you? A d-cup?” 

“One, you’re new. Two, you’re motherfuckin New. Three, you fuckin ignorant,” the kid’s voice was clear, thick and rhythmic like a west-coast emcee, those brown eyes glared and posture bristled with annoyance the more Trevor stared, “Four, you fuckin poor. Get a-steppin, dog, ‘fore I throw you out myself.” 

“Ooh! Whatever you want to do, I’m done, baby,” Trevor scooted himself up closer to the man whom straightened up as soon as their hips touched, the kid was about nine centimeters shy of looking him in the meth-yellowed eye, but the posture was more like standing toe-to-toe with a pitbull, he growled rubbing the lump fighting against his stained sweatpants and tenting against his filthy LoveFist shirt, “Give me a minute of your time, kid, I promise I won’t disappoint.” 

“Can’t you fuckin Read, dude, the sign out front says ‘Don’t shit where you eat’,” the kid said as if Trevor should have known the sugar-mamma-code-of-ethics, the kid stepped back away from Trevor and took the closed-face helmet slung defensively in hand just in case Trevor turned out to be a touchy pervert, “As in ‘Don’t let your side-fuck meet your home-fuck’. I don’t fuck my customers, man, it ain’t professional. I’d be more than happy to direct you to a motherfuckin corner to cool your fuckin head.” 

Trevor swigged the water and crunched on the ice, he snorted, “Jeez, the girls at the Unicorn don’t have That rule.” 

“Then go across the street and fuck one of Them, I ain’t holding you back,” the kid pointed in the general direction of the Vanilla Unicorn, the clear drink abandoned and mood on the verge of frightening, “We don’t have a say on where our customers get their fucking jollies from as long as they don’t bring it here to this establishment. It’s bad for PR.” 

Trevor knew two things about the kid: one, he was hotter than a double-teamed lap dance, and two, the kid was employed at the Blue Stallion. 

With renewed hunger at fucking a flexible male stripper, Trevor closed the space between them both and leaned down, his voice slithering between the up-turned motion of his lips, “I’ve never known a stripper with a heart of gold who doesn’t do a bit of gold-digging on their day off.” 

“I ain’t ever heard of a john who keeps their word and leaves their wife for the bar-bunny, shit don’t always work the way you want them to, dog,” the kid raised up on tip-toes and whispered defensively over the thudding music, and finished off a forgotten glass before pushing it back to the bartender, “Go on back to your girls, man, they need their boss supervising their bad decisions right about now.” 

Trevor’s mouth went dry as the kid backed off, and eventually swaggered out through the double doors, he pushed through the doors to the dun of a two-cylinder engine firing up and zooming off toward the Los Santos downtown area, the distant rumble of the big-bore exhaust, double-turbo and quick gear-shifting told him all he needed to know of the kid. The two-cylinder engine was a Japanese Dinka Double-T Racer, the aero-dynamically whiz undertone was the sound of a custom carbon Bati-Super shell, the big-bore exhaust was carbon-treated titanium, the double-turbo was either Italian or Chinese-manufactured, and the only thing remotely american about the bike was the rider. No two things matched about the bike being first off that strippers were not formally adrenaline-junkies or velocity-addicts, they were careful about their bodies and their looks; the bike was likely built from scratch being that no two sounds matched the original brands, which either the kid had some skill with the engine or he made the bike from junkyard-heap to showroom-quality; Los Santos strippers were virtually unattainable and pretty, but the kid looked like any guy who would deal weed on a corner or hold up a convenience shop for fun, handsome in his own way; the kid did not drop his pants at a moment’s notice or act like he was relatively broke. The kid in a nutshell: Trevor was chasing after a speed-freak tool-happy not-too-rich not-very-poor above-the-system manly biker boy who refused to be pushed into a corner without a pair of bruises. He personally had no taste for middle-aged smack-headed leather-layered bikers, but something about the kid was ‘other’. 

“Get back here and dance for me, bitch!” Trevor shouted at the retreating roar tearing away through traffic and becoming a dull hum mimicking Los Santos traffic, he stomped around the parking lot and threw his fist into a window, he pulled his bloody knuckles away and roared at the skyline winking shades of reddish yellow, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”


End file.
